Love Games
by karebear
Summary: "What we are is not all bad, you know." Leliana and Zevran. A tale of betrayal and the possibility of redemption, told in three snapshots.
1. Trust: Leliana

Title: Love Games  
Author: karebear  
Rating: M  
Characters: Leliana and Zevran, and their relevant backstory supporting characters  
Standard Disclaimer (Dragon Age): I don't own these characters or the world they inhabit. Bioware built the sandbox. I just play in it.  
Summary: "What we are is not all bad, you know." Leliana and Zevran. A tale of betrayal and the possibility of redemption, told in three snapshots.

* * *

Marjolaine pulls her into a tight hug, her sharp fingernails tracing slowly up her shoulderblade, a touch that licks like a thin line of fire even through the heavy fabric of her roughspun shirt. The scent of the woman's perfume is heady, and the sweet warmth of her breath, ghosting across the curve of her neck before stopping to whisper secrets in her ear, is enough to make her tremble. Marjolaine laughs, a melody like the tinkling of bells, and with her free hand begins to lift that damnable shirt that stands between them. She strips it away agonizingly slowly, and the cool air of the room sends goosebumps across each newly-exposed narrow band of Leliana's stomach. She pushes herself closer to the woman with a desperate moan, and Marjolaine licks her lips, the fire in her eyes a promise of the fun to come.

The kiss is... _amazing_. Forceful and intense, and Marjolaine's wearing some kind of makeup on her lips that tastes _good_: sweet, like oranges or something. Leliana sucks at the woman's lower lip, and Marjolaine nibbles back, sharply enough to draw the smallest bead of blood.

Marjolaine licks it away as she turns back to the writing desk. So much work, here. So much more to be done.

Leliana reaches out, her hand grasping at Marjolaine's, pulling her back, desperate for her closeness, more of her touch.

So easy to work with, this one. Her motivations and desires are so simple. Marjolaine turns and smiles lazily, giving the girl's smaller, nimble fingers a gentle squeeze.

"Later, my dear," she offers. "When there is time. For now, there is something I must ask of you."

Leliana frowns, the worry in her dark eyes all too obvious. Marjolaine clucks her tongue, sending a light touch, a tease, along the perfectly smooth flesh of the girl's arm. She'll never be successful at the Game if she continues wearing her heart on her sleeve in such a way. A hard lesson, but she did promise to _teach_ the girl. She is good with a knife, certainly, and her innocent charm opens many a door. But she has a long way to go if she is ever to be considered worthy of being called a bard.

"What do you want?" Leliana asks, and Marjolaine chuckles, amused by the sullenness of her tone and the way her arms have crossed over her chest.

"So _suspcious_, you are," she teases. "I promise, it's a simple job, routine. You'll be back in a matter of hours. And then we can move on to more... _entertaining_ pursuits. I promise."

"Alright," Leliana agrees. Calmly, she no doubt believes, but Marjolaine can read the slightest hesitation in her voice, notices the way her eyes linger, dancing from breast to lips. Yes... almost too easy. But simple pleasures bring their own form of reward, sometimes.

Marjolaine plants a gentle kiss on the top of her head, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "There's a good girl. Take Sketch with you," she advises, as she sends Leliana on her way. Reluctantly, of course, yet she hides it far, far better. "The boy's jumping at every shadow. It's a wonder he hasn't called the templars down on himself, the way he behaves." Healthy suspicion does have it's place in their business, certainly, and the apostate does possess his own talents. But he certainly needs all the practice he can get when it comes to blending in on the streets, not drawing attention. Leli can teach him. And who knows? Maybe the girl will surprise her. Anything's possible.


	2. Betrayal: Zevran

She says nothing. He tightens his fingers around her collarbone, so dangerously close to her throat, and pushes her, _hard_, smashing her against the heavy brick wall of the warehouse, empty and dark, another night on the docks. No one will come to investigate the noise, not unless they want to end up as just another cold corpse under the water. Rinna inhales sharply, and Zevran thinks he sees her flinch, for just the briefest moment. Maybe he's imagining it. She is a Crow too, after all, trained just as he was.

His heart pounds loudly in his chest. _Why won't she defend herself?_ She doesn't even acknowledge the accusation. He lets his gaze slide toward Taliesen. The other man holds his dagger ready, his face hard and impassive, but the coldness in his narrowed eyes tells Zevran everything he needs to know. He sighs, pulling away from Rinna, not _quite_ turning his back on her. That is something he will never do. When he glances back, he sees the shadow of a smile on her face. Her hair falls in messy strands, and it's all too easy to remember running his fingers through it as they lay in bed together. He hears her voice; teasing whispers and an easy laugh. This _silent_ Rinna... he doesn't know her.

"Did you do it?" he snarls, unsure whether he is more afraid that she will answer or that she won't. Her smile grows wider, perfect teeth shining bright white in the darkness.

She sidles close to him, hands open to show that she is holding no weapon; not that it matters, they both know how to kill without them.

"Zevran, we both know it doesn't matter," she says softly. "The sentence is already given." Her fingers ghost over his skin, and he pulls her to him. His warm breath puffs over her neck, her lips invite him to kiss them. Their bodies, so closely intertwined, speak their own language: one of electricity and need, sex and heat and the magic of summer in Antiva. Her subtle perfume, smelling mostly of flowers, washes over him like a drug. He recognizes everything about the way she feels in his arms, the exact temperature of her slightly flushed skin, the softness of her bosom, the taste of her. The only thing he cannot understand is how she could betray him so easily. Oh, he understands the temptation to escape the Crows: they agree on that point the way they agree on so many other things, though they speak those thoughts without words. But _this_... "Just do it!" she snaps, all anger and fire. "Damn it, Zevran! Just do it!"

Behind them, Taliesen shifts, his fingers tightening around the knife he holds. Zevran nearly shoves Rinna into the path of his partner's blade, without a word. What more can be said?

He closes his eyes, no longer caring what Taliesen will think. Let the other man judge him weak. He would not be wrong.

His chest hurts, and his stomach protests, he wants so badly to be sick. But the pain is nothing physical, only heartbreak.

They keep no secrets from each other. She'd sworn it; stuffed deep into the pocket of his trousers is a ring made of braided grass: a child's gift. Or the only token of love that would not be used as a tool against them. He will burn it; he has already burned everything that used to be the two of them.

"Just tell me one thing," he whispers, his voice as broken as her body, blood pooling behind the knife Taliesen slides so easily over her throat. She is no longer capable of telling him anything. "Was _everything_ a lie?"

Taliesen wipes his blade with a look of grim satisfaction. "Let's go, Arainai."

Zevran nods, and follows.

The echoes of his hollow footsteps chase after him, but Rinna never will again.


	3. Try Again

**Notes: **This chapter brought to you by the musical stylings of Keane, "Try Again"

* * *

Zevran shifts sightly on the rock he sits on, wincing as he does so. How his Crow trainers would have punished him for allowing simple discomfort to distract him. His movement draws attention, and he knows better. He stills himself, and lets his eyes flicker over to his partner for just the briefest moment, checking her reaction. She is watching him, seated on a fallen log just across the fire. The dancing flames highlight the red of her hair, and he allows himself a lazy smile, and a longer look. His eyes drift from her hair to the curves of her body, somehow made all the more attractive by the close-fitting leather armor she wears. "You're supposed to be watching for threats, Zevran," Leliana tells him flatly. "Not watching me."

He snickers, raising an eyebrow and letting a seductive grin pull at the corner of his lip. "I cannot help myself. Such a beautiful woman deserves watching." He stands, moving toward her with an easy grace, sidling close. He thinks he's so smooth. "And the watching was not, as they say, an entirely one-way road. Was it?"

No, it wasn't.

If it were, she'd be holding a knife to his throat right now, not letting him fondle her. His hand has drifted to her breast, so smoothly she almost cannot remember how it happened. She can feel the heat of his tanned skin, the tautness of his muscles, toned by years of exercise, practicing these moves until they become second nature. The calluses of his fingers are familiar, as are the simple tricks he does with the knives hidden in familiar pockets of unrestrictive armor. He is a professional, adept at stalking from the shadows, killing without a sound. Well, there's no such thing as an innocent person, not really. She learned that a long time ago.

She chews on her lower lip and lets her eyes drift upward to meet his, though they are nearly the same height, his elven stature smaller than that of any human man she's ever run with. He smiles, drawing one of those callused fingers slowly up the inside of her thigh. Yeah, he knows what he's doing. She grabs the back of his neck, angling his head down to meet hers, and kisses him, hard and violent. He tastes good, like the sugar lingering from their recent tea, and some kind of crazy Antivan spices. And he parts his lips just the slightest bit to allow her tongue to explore his mouth. Just for a couple of heartbeats, that's all she wants. And then she pushes him back, slightly. His eyes are wide as he catches himself, barely, before falling over the campfire log.

"Ah... I was led to believe that those who swore themselves to the Chantry were denied such _base_ pleasures."

"I've told you _and_ the Warden, plenty of times. I never swore myself to the Chantry. I simply... stayed there for a time."

Zevran laughs, drawing a dagger from somewhere and flipping it between his fingers. The way his eyes linger over her breasts prove he had no such illusions, or simply believed himself capable of overcoming them without difficulty. "Indeed. There is too much fun to be had in the world, is there not?"

Fun. Her blood runs cold as she remembers what had come of Marjolaine's fun.

The dark shadows at the edge of the firelight suddenly seem much more ominous, creeping ever closer, dogging her every step with old hopes and fears. Her fingers twitch, and she reaches out for the knife in his hand - one of hers. He returns it without protest. "We cannot stop being what we are," he reminds her, simply. She nods, tucks the dagger away, and refuses to meet his eyes.

He reaches out, running his hand along the soft curve of her cheek. Her hair brushes his fingers, and he can't help but smile. He kisses her, his lips just barely grazing hers. She responds, returning the kiss with far more heat and passion. Her fingers runs teasingly up his spine as she laughs. He feels a familiar stirring in his groin, he is flush with heat that doesn't come from the fire. She knows what she's doing, too. "What we are is not all bad, you know," he whispers, nibbling at her ear.

She takes a deep breath, pulls away. She crosses her arms protectively over her chest as she stalks over to the log to resume watch. Yet she doesn't look out into the forest she's supposed to be guarding, but into the flickering flames of the campfire. "No such thing as love, Arainai, we both know better. It's all just games."

He sits down too, next to her, his arm wrapping gently around her, with no ulterior motive now, except to offer comfort. The darkness in her eyes unsettles him, because it resonates so strongly with that cold place deep inside his stomach. "Not always, querida," he mouths silently, his lips buried in her hair.

She shakes her head, just slightly.

Not always.


End file.
